Abysitter: Tales From the Crib

To read the entire "Growing Up: The Cottage" series, and other blog entries I've written about growing up, click here.

Last week I wrote about my family's summer cottage, a small one-bedroom shack-like structure smack-dab on a lake in upstate New York. My grandfather built it decades before I was even born, and it became a special part of the lives of my grandparents, parents, and so many family members and friends. I recognized it's specialness at a very young age. It became a part of most of my childhood memories worth remembering, and remains just as special today. It's the basis for my love of the water; if you know me you know what I'm talking about. Most of all, it gave me a place to experiment with my toddler alter-ego. I'm writing about some of those experiences here...

Cloth Diapers...

If you're a regular reader of my blog you know that I wore cloth diapers past the age many children do - by choice, not by force - and that, after a few years of potty-trained hell, began sneaking Pampers from my baby cousin's stash, or manufacturing my own.

By age twelve I was making my Gladlock diapers on the regular, sleeping in them several nights a week and, whenever allowed, using them all day during 'hooky days'.

The summer presented even more opportunities to wear, with entire days home to make diapers and, sometimes, wear them.

Long weekends, and weeks, spent at the cottage, however, presented a challenge: close proximity to family around-the-clock, and sleeping in an open bedroom right above my younger brother and within earshot of my parents. Making diapers was next to impossible, and wearing them - well, that wasn't happening.

Crinkle, crinkle...

Um, no.

Until one day, when I came upon the solution.

Can we say... Sham-Wow?!

Disposable diapers made out of plastic garbage bags are a decent stand-in for the real thing. Judging from the emails I receive, and links to YouTube videos I've seen, I'm far from the only person who has discovered this. I've seen diapers made out of garbage bags, grocery bags, and even Target bags. (One, with a target symbol displayed prominently on the back of the diaper, was downright hot.) Luvs they will never be, but when you have that instinct to wear a diaper, they work. And we all know it.

[Speaking of instinct... if you're not an ABDL and have stumbled across this blog... my position is that many, if not all, ABies and DLs wear diapers out of instinct. I'll be blogging more about this later, but believe me when I say: I was never forced to wear a diaper, or asked to wear a diaper; I just never stopped wanting to wear diapers. Instinct.]

I couldn't wear my Hefty Huggies at the cottage without risking detection. So, at night, after a day of exhausting fun swimming, hiking, water skiing, and boating, I'd lay awake in my pajamas, wishing. Some nights I'd be so tired I'd fall asleep quickly and barely notice. Other nights, though, I'd stay awake, sticky from the heat and having difficulty falling asleep. During these times one thing was clear: I knew I'd be fast asleep if I was diapered. Grrrr!

When you're an AB and you're used to wearing diapers - even homemade ones - on a semi-regular basis, having to go a long weekend, week, or weeks without them is difficult. You really miss them, not just because they cover your ass while you're sleeping, but for those of us on the AB side of this lifestyle, because they allow you to escape into that toddler headspace that most of us crave.

And crave it I did.

This went on for a few summers. Age ten: diaperless nights at the cottage. Age eleven: diaperless nights at the cottage, save one in which I attempted to use a towel, learning quickly that towels and my penis are not friends.

At age twelve I discovered... chamois.

It's like a chamois. It's like a towel. It's like a sponge.

It's like... a diaper.

It holds up to twelve times it's weight in liquid.

You'll be saying "Wow!" every time...

As a competitive swimmer I'd been familiar with chamois for a while. We used something called The Shammy - a small, square chamois towel excellent for drying off on the pool deck. If you're not familiar with chamois, it's a magic-like fabric that literally wicks away wetness. Think diaper stuffer, but on steroids.

The Shammy was nothing like a diaper. They came in colors - mine was baby blue - and were about the size of a big washcloth. Not enough material to cover one part of my ass...

One day I was messing around in the boathouse, probably sitting in the motorboat dreaming about the day I'd have my own - a popular pastime for me as a kid - and I saw what appeared to be a gigantic towel. It was on top of the cabinet that held ski gear and snorkels. I'd seen it before - it was the cloth my father used to dry off the boat seats when ski spray soaked the boat. But I'd never really noticed it, and now, for some reason, hanging off the top of the cabinet, it took on the shape of... a diaper. (Although, with my diaper obsession, it's probably safe to say that many things reminded me of diapers).

I walked over to the cabinet, jumped up, and grabbed the towel. It wasn't soft or supple at all; it was hard and rigid, and it fell, smacking me in the face on its way to the floor. I picked it up and tried to fold it; it was too rigid to be bent in half, which would have made it the world's biggest diaper. Damn. No chance of hiding that under my jammies...

I wasn't saying "wow" at all.

I was irritated, and I tossed the chamois across the boathouse. Being fairly hard, it caught the wind and flew further than I'd expected, landing in the water next to the boat. I scooped it out and noticed the difference. Why hadn't I thought of this? It was soft and wet. I wrung out the excess liquid and folded it the way I'd intended to before; voila! I had a bootleg version of a cloth diaper.

The chamois was grey - not exactly diaper-color - but my jammies were grey, too, and I knew it would blend. I quietly carried my new toy along the beach and into the cottage, somehow escaping detection, and carefully placed the 'diaper' underneath my mattress. Tonight I would be... toddlerized.

I had fun the rest of the day, although I don't remember it. What I do remember was the anticipation. If you're a true AB you know what I mean; you've probably experienced the urge to toddlerize simultaneously with an inability to do so. Knowing your next regression fix is just around the corner causes a kind of exciting that could best be described as a mixture of happy and horny. I'd been twelve for a week without a break, and that night I'd be back in diapers... quiet, non-crinkling diapers that would fit under my pajamas and sort of blend in. I was excited.

Bedtime came early for me, on purpose. The rest of the family was getting ready to go for a sunset boat ride, but I begged off, claiming sleepiness. Putt, putt, putt... the boat putted away and, as soon as it was out of earshot, I practically raced into the cottage, whipping my diaper out of its hiding spot. I dropped my jammies to the floor, climbed onto my brother's mattress, and lay my little bare ass on the 'diaper'. For several minutes I lay, silent and still, envisioning myself being diapered. I don't remember who was diapering me in my thoughts, but it quickly became clear who wouldn't be diapering me in reality: me. I finally started to pull my sham Pamper up over myself and - not happening. The diaper had dried and hardened, and forcing it to fold did nothing more than bend it in half. Not comfortable at all.

I had the solution. I jumped down and ran, bare-assed, out onto the beach. I looked around, making sure nobody was able to see me, and scampered to the water, dropping the chamois into the water. I let it get wet, then pulled it out, wrung it out, and ran back inside. The diaper was now soft and damp. I grabbed my jammy bottoms off the floor and threw them up onto the top bunk, then climbed up the ladder, spread the diaper across the mattress, and plopped my ass onto it.

I centered myself, folded it up between my legs, and stretched it out. (Chamois is stretchy). Within minutes I'd cinched it diaper-style with two safety pins.

I lay, 'diapered', and regressed, for nearly an hour. In my head I re-lived the events of the past week - except, for each of them, I was diapered. Water-skiing in a diaper... running around the beach in a diaper... eating dinner at the picnic table in a diaper.

At some point my thoughts began to insert a high chair into the picnic table scene, and a playpen on the beach. This was how I wished I could spend the summers; even at age twelve I knew I still wanted to be a toddler. And, once I was fully toddlerized, it was time. I turned over... and began... to hump...

I'd recently discovered how to masturbate. I'd stumbled upon it by accident, actually. Laying on my stomach writing some kind of regression story or other - I've always like writing about diapers, probably not surprisingly - I began to rub up on the mattress, enjoying the feeling of my garbage bag diaper against my penis, the feeling of the paper towel rubbing against the inside of my ass. Imagine my surprise when I... peed. Or so I thought. I'd always been careful not to pee on school nights, wanting to avoid having to take a shower in the morning. I was surprised as hell, but it felt good. I did it again three more times that night. Having to get up earlier to take a shower was worth it... but man, was I one tired toddler that morning.

Back to the cottage. I lay in bed, slowly moving my bottom up and down, my penis pressing against the chamois material. Outside boats puttered by and sounds of fun carried across the water. Inside I was two years old, laying in my crib, sent to bed early while the 'grownups' had their fun outside. Less than thirty minutes later I squirted. BAM! As only a twelve year-old can, I soaked the front of the fake diaper. Chamois really does soak up liquid, I found, and within thirty seconds I was feeling dry.

I lay, tired, and groped around for my pajama bottoms, finding them and pulling them on. About the time they were covered my 'diapered' ass I heard the familiar sound of our boat puttering into the dock. Footsteps came down the dock and I quickly switched on the lamp, checked myself to make sure the diaper was hidden underneath my pajama pants, and turned the light back off. As it switched off, and the screen door creaked open, it registered: my mattress, and the front of my pajamas, were discolored. They were wet. Not with cum, but with lakewater. I'd wrung out most of it but there was some left, and it got left on the mattress and, now, my jammies. Damn!

My brother came into the bedroom and hopped right into bed.

"Should've come!" he told me.

I did, hehehe... I was thinking.

I lay in bed, now bathed in light as my brother read or drew or did whatever he was doing down below. In my thoughts I was still a toddler. My top-bunk rail was my crib rail, my family were the 'grownups', and Little Cwis was laying in his crib, toddler-style.

At some point, like all toddlers, I had to go potty. My grey diaper was pinned tightly onto me, and it was all underneath my grey jammies; In my mind I was safe walking around, if I had to; chamois doesn't crinkle, and it was still damp enough to fit like a diaper. Who'd have known?

Except for the dampness on the outside of the diaper.

I checked my jammies. Still discolored with wetness. Damn! Even if I quietly unpinned the diaper, my pajamas were still wet. Climbing down the bunk bed ladder I'd quickly be found out, and even if my brother didn't see, or say, something, my parents would see me as I slunk out for the outhouse.

I lay in bed, uncomfortably tossing and turning, hoping my brother would tire of reading, and my parents would turn in. No such luck. And hour later everyone was still reading, my jammies were still damp, and I had to piss like there was no tomorrow.

But there would be a tomorrow. And I'd have to get my little bottom up out of bed, hide a damp diaper, and hope to God my pajamas were dry again.

It finally became obvious that I wouldn't be getting any relief from darkness soon. I threw my blankets off, exasperated, and began to climb out of bed. Maybe I can blame it on sweat, I thought, oblivious to the fact that a cool breeze had lowered temperatures in the cottage significantly. I put my foot on the ladder and began to climb over, when my brother reached out and pulled his towel off of the ladder rung beneath me.

"Sorry, I set it out to dry," he told me. I continued to climb down, and he continued. "You can put your pajamas there instead, if you need to." He giggled.

If he could see my parents would be able to, so I pretended to retrieve something out of the dresser and climbed back up into bed. I lay still, and when I couldn't take it any longer I decided it was time...

...to wet the bed.

I lay on my back and slowly inched my pajamas down toward my feet. I slid them over my 'diaper' and down to my knees, then kicked them off. I set them out over the inside rail, out of eyesight but in the open-air. Drying time! I pulled my blanket up to my neck, pushed my hand down into my diaper, and pointed my penis down.

Squirt...

I squirted just a little, feeling the pee trickle down the chamois, along my asscrack, and kind of get soaked up by the material. I turned my penis on and off like a faucet, peeing, waiting for the soakation, and peeing again. Squirt... soak... squirt... soak. I discovered that, if I wet slowly and waited, the liquid was mostly confined to the inside of the diaper. A lack of plastic pants wasn't fazing my Sham-Wow Pamper... by the time my bladder was empty my diaper was soaked as fuck, but the mattress had nothing more than a small wet spot. Chamois diapers are... amazing!

So, at age twelve, I lay above my brother, and in the next room from my parents, in my "crib", my soaking wet diaper keeping me from climbing out. It was as close to being a real toddler as I would come, and - despite my embarrassment and fear that the odor, or my brother's habit of pulling my blanket down off of the floor for fun, would find me out... barely an afterthought.

I remember very vividly how I felt that night - and, how much I wanted to recreate that experience every single time we stayed over at the cottage afterwards.

To Be Continued...

Coming up: I get caught in diapers. More than once.

It pisses me off. I used to post YouTube videos of diaper scenes every Tuesday. "YouTube Tuesdays", we'd call them.

(Well, okayyyyy... some Tuesdays. I'm the first to admit I put stuff off...)

Then one of my favorite-of-all-time videos got removed. And I heard that someone posted creepy comments on the person's YouTube about our fetish. The video had been of a French boy wearing two baby diapers taped together, sitting in a chair eating various jars of baby food until he puked. It was... so cute. But the guys in the video didn't know anything about diaper fetish until, apparently, we told them.

So, once I found out, I took a break from posting them.

But I've wanted to share this with you for a while. So I ripped it from YouTube and uploaded it here. No danger it will be removed, and no danger anyone will tip off the family of this possible ABDL.

The boy in this video, Ricky, has found an old GoodNite (for girls) that a relative left at the house. His mother, who claims that she took the video to embarrass her son for disobeying her, is all-too-happy to let Ricky walk around the house - and the entire neighborhood - in his diaper. And he looks like he's in heaven.

This might be totally innocent. On the other hand, if Ricky is ABDL... how lucky is this kid?

I know I totally wish I was in his place...

...and if you see the look of shear happiness around on his face when he's standing in front of the television... damn.

You go, Ricky...

...and no, I have no idea why Ricky's brother is duct-taped on the floor. A whole fetish family, perhaps?